


The Breakup

by ToasterBonanza



Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [5]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Arson, Blood and Injury, Burning Down Your House Instead Of Getting Therapy, Cemeteries, Crimes & Criminals, Family Honor, Fighting Instead of Talking About Your Feelings, Gen, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Music, Interrogation, Klingon Culture, Multiple Perspectives, Musicians, Performing Arts, Post-Canon, Self-Exile, Spies & Secret Agents, Stabbing, Strangling You Friend Instead of Dealing With Your Reunion, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 19,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza
Summary: Story 5 of "Piper At the Gates of Dawn"Everything had been going so well....Eleven months after the four of them decided to make music the likes of which no one had ever experienced, they were back together. Separated. Four interrogations room. Questions about their past, their whereabouts, who they knew and when. Nothing is adding up.Four people who couldn't be more different all decided to come back together. But the real question: what made them split up in the first place?
Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072472
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. To Sister, From Brother

Dearest Safia, 

This may be my last letter to you for quite some time. You will find all of the possessions of mine that I always promised you would have eventually and a few others I must give you to for safe-keeping. 

I am leaving Bajor. I have told you at length about the three people who have changed my life in ways I could not imagine before. After returning home, I find myself too restless. After being on a planet where my scars were marks of respect and not disdain, I cannot stay here. There is so much to find beyond this planet that I want to learn, and I cannot do it without leaving everything behind. I wish Nima were still alive. I wish it everyday. I thought that I would stop missing her when I stopped being a child. Adulthood makes me miss her more. I watched these people with their mixed-parents; I knew that hybrids could be born of two people who loved each other, but I never understood what that meant until now. I wish I could know Nima now the way others talk of knowing their parents now, learning to be friends with someone you once both loved and feared. She was better than our mothers ever could be.

I thought that exploring every piece of Bajor would give me release, reveal my place among its people. The more I see, the more I wish to wander. My soul is so restless. I think it is the conqueror in me. Why else would our fathers have come here if they weren’t restless?

I don’t think my heart will ever be unbroken. Why do I still hope that they will see us as the future, not the past? Is it all I have left? Is it wrong? What is so wrong about wanting a place that looks at us and see a person instead of a crime? 

These people I have met. They see none of this. They don’t know. They don’t ask. They have no understanding of what we lived through, what we suffered, how much of us had to die for the rest to live. How much of our essence we lost to stay alive. Somehow, their ignorance is freeing. They only care about my music. 

I wish I had no love for Bajor. I hate that I love a place which will never love me. I hate that it will never love us. It wants us to never be happy. It wishes we were dead. Everything would be easier if we were. But leaving is still so hard because this place that hates me is my home. I thought I would run out of tears days ago. Maybe one eye must weep for two. 

There are so many places I have heard of yet never seen. First, there is one place I must go. The place that is our birthright.

I promise, you will hear from me. I will tell you everything. My heart. My light in the darkness of Nima’s death. My sister among sisters. I love you so much. 

I wish you could come with. In some ways, I wish you had never found happiness and love and romance here. How easy it would be to see you as angry as me. 

But you deserve the beauty of your life. Not the evil that was forced upon us. The evil I still feel inside me. I wish I could bear to visit you more. I wish that visiting you would not bring back memories of losing Nima and Cirn and the other terrible things that came when they were buried. I wish that you were only a source of joy in my life. I wish that seeing you did not make me weep for what happened. 

I wish that I did not want so many impossible things. 

Safia, while I am gone, hold and kiss your children for me. Tell them how much I love them.

Tell them how special they are. 

Your favorite brother,  
Minjaral


	2. Purification by Fire

It was a clear, warm night. The stars blanketed the sky like millions of crystals against ultramarine silk. Terok Nor winked down at the countryside. From atop his hill, he saw the big green meadow spread out below. He liked that he could see the whole valley from here: the village, the winding roads, the orchards and fields. Harvest season. The smell of hot sweets snaked out of the chimneys and up to his home. It had rained a few days ago. 

He stood in front of his grandparents’ shrines. behind his house. In the front room of the house, he had piled up wood and shattered furniture. He moved the other shrines years ago: his mother, her husband, their children—including the other Minjaral that came later and was meant to replace him. Keeping them was too painful when he inherited the house. But he could place them with the other fallen and ensure that someone else would always tend to their memories. He leaned against his sledgehammer. The current wave of tears and wailing had subsided, for now.

Ten generations of the Seu family had lived here, serving this town and the valley with their goods made in this house. A cellar which had served the Resistance like every cellar did. A hearth had warmed strangers from beyond the stars. He had dedicated his life to preserving history. And yet. “This was such an ugly house,” he declared. 

Work quickly before someone stops all of this. The large pile of stones he’d pulled from the foundation lay in the front. The circle of them had to be large enough to contain everything, both the house and the graves. If the wind shifted, it could mean disaster. 

Heavy as the stones were, dragging them into the circle took a burden off his heart. Being a bit drunk helped too.

By the time he finished, all the chimneys through the valley stopped smoking. Smells of baking had ceased long ago, replaced by the smell of the wet meadow. The wind picked up, bringing a chill and a spray of dew up the hill. 

A bottle, filled with fuel, stood next to his grandmother’s shrine. It was a lovely night. Clear and quiet. Terok Nor, still up there, still winking. He kept forgetting its new name. He didn’t mean to. Too many strikes to the head. Couldn’t feel the flow of time correctly. Picking up the fuel bottle, he poured the thick black stuff on the shrines before drawing a line into the house. He tossed the bottle somewhere inside, hearing it break. 

He had lit some special incense resting on the shrine. The thick bluish plumes, like a lady’s hair, wafted and wove around, inviting itself into his nostrils. It cooled his throat. He felt his pulse relax. 

Almost done. He took his laser-lighter to the black fuel near the shrines. The warmth would be like nothing he had ever felt. 

A small red flame started at first, low and smoldering. He saw the deep red travel slowly through the veins of fuel, dew on the grass sizzling nearby. It was melodious, the sounds of crackling from rocks suddenly popping apart as little beads of water boiled out of them. The red wound its way through every bit of blackness on the ground. Already, the air felt warmer like a thick cloak. 

He didn’t wait to see the fire start in the house, instead walking outside the circle of stones to grab the hammer. One more task. 

Should he say anything before he started? Tell them? All his pain, all his sorrow. This house that was once his prison. The things he wanted to say to them. The things he wished he had done to them. 

What he would have given to be there that day. He would have walked through the crowd to the front to watch them before the soldiers shot them dead, called out, got their attention. He would make certain that he was the last thing they saw, so they would know: he was alive. Against everything they ever wanted, he was alive. And he was happy. 

Why did he even keep the house for so long? It seemed like the way to finally heal. It had been death. But it had also been home. He couldn’t think of anywhere else he wanted to go. Not until now. 

He heard a beam crash from within. More crunching and crackling. Smoke gushing out of the windows and the doors. The hammer had a good weight to it, easy to toss around and twirl.

What should he say to them? That every year to commemorate the day he learned of their deaths, he held a sumptuous party for all of his colleagues and Nima’s children. That he had any friends at all. That he was respected. That he, of everyone they could imagine, joined the first delegation off-planet since the end of the Occupation to represent their history and culture because of his work protecting music. 

That he still had nightmares. That ever since he inherited the house, he tied himself to his bed each night. That he could still feel everything they did. That children still shrank in fear from him. 

A rush of smoke came by. The wind had shifted. The heat felt like safety. 

He didn’t need to say anything. He was alive. And they weren’t. The shrine gave way with the first hit. Both shrines would be rubble shortly. His muscles burned but his heart felt light. 

The fire on the hill roared before anyone noticed what had happened. All through the valley, people awoke to a strange beacon. The last remaining sign that the family Seu had ever existed.


	3. Just A Few Questions....

Interrogator Utrecht ignored the ambient hum of the station as she read the summary report on her subject, strolling through the gray corridors to her subject’s holding room. Their supervisor had taken pains to build resources on the Maryam for their own needs while balancing against those of the crash investigators. Three advocates had come to the rescue, vastly different backgrounds.. Maybe they were part of some elite sleeper spy cell. Of course, when she saw them, they didn’t look like spies or terrorists or much to speak of. But these days, anything was possible.

A small one-way window to the room showed the subject sitting motionless in the bright white room at the interrogation table. He was Vulcan so probably meditating. That was what they did, after all. Her partner, Interrogator Rustrid, waited for her at the doors.

After both input their access codes at the door, the computer serenaded them. “ _Subject Shield activated. You may now enter._ ” The split doors slid open.

The moment they entered, their subject stood to greet them. Utrecht noticed he wore a pair of long black gloves, tapered at the fingers for dexterous work. Fashion statement?

“Please sit.” The Subject Shield shimmered between them. “Have you been waiting long? We can enable the replicator behind you if you would like something to drink.”

The subject settle down, composing himself in that stiff manner of all Vulcans. “No, thank you.”

The interrogators sat at their end of the table, sliding open panels to reveal their consoles. No holographic displays or upright screens. “You may be in here for quite some time. We will provide you with breaks as we see fit, and you will be escorted by both of us at all times. Do you agree to these conditions?”

“Yes.”

The subject’s side of the table lit up with a display of all biographical information on file. “Vudic, Son of Talok, Jalal, please review all data shown and confirm its accuracy. Place your palm in the designated area in lieu of a written signature.”

\-----------------

“....here for quite some time. We will provide you with breaks as we see fit, and you will be escorted by both of us at all times. Do you agree to these conditions?”

Did he have a choice in the matter? “Yes, I suppose.”

The table before him lit up, displaying his picture and the essential details of his life. “Doh’Val, Son of Carl, of the House Seu, please review all data shown and confirm its accuracy. Place your palm in the designated area in lieu of a written signature.”

\-----------------

“Do you agree to these conditions?” They had insisted on doing this very early, but they were at least being kind enough to let him eat. They also kept the lights lower than other rooms to help his eyesight.

He noisily slurped a bowl of soup, his first meal for the day. New interrogators, not like the ones who had been handling him.“Where are the other investigators?”

Not good. The interrogator set his jaw stiffly. “They are not part of this phase. I have been assigned.”

Up to now, everyone had been courteous and given him no reason to openly fight them. He moved his bowl when the table lit up.

“Seu Minjaral, please…” He stopped listening after his name.

\-----------------

“....Krax, Son of Rhoon, please review all data shown and confirm its accuracy.”

The only piece of data wholly truthful on the screen was his picture. Excellent. It was all inaccurate in just the way he had expected. Whatever they had on him or any of them, it was nothing of concern.

He placed his hand in the designated area, just as instructed.

\-----------------

“You are a—” Utrecht pulled up the dossier on her subject. “A musicologist, yes? That sounds very interesting.”

“It is.”

“Now—” “A question.”

She nodded. “You are welcome to ask us anything.”

“Is it correct that civilian advocates require medical exams?”

“Yes, to establish a baseline, but it is non-invasive. We do not collect samples without your consent.”

“Is it correct also that I have a say in the doctor who examines me?”

“Yes, we can make certain accommodations.”

“I wish to be examined by a Vulcan doctor.” His chin raised just slightly as a subtle defiance. “And I will not consent to any other doctor.”

Utrecht glanced to her colleague’s console who was taking notes. <<Subject’s mind indicates typical Vulcan barriers. The wall is thinner than usual. Strong preference for same species. Hiding something but willing to share with doctor. Vulcans are bigoted like that. Low risk to accommodate.>>

Utrecht turned back to her subject. “Mr. Jalal—” “Master Artist, if you please” “Master Artist Jalal, this is a risky proposition. You must understand that until your exam, the Legal Consortium cannot assume responsibility for any harm that you may experience. Your family will have no legal recourse if you are hurt during your stay.”

“You say this as if there is a possibility that I would be injured on a Starfleet station.”

“A space station is always more dangerous than being on a planetary settlement. That is a fact, and it is important to us that we keep you safe.”

“I understand. I will not submit to an exam without a Vulcan doctor.”

“Then you understand that we will need to bring one to the space station.”

“I do.”

Sighing, Utrecht recorded this very stupid decision in her notes. “Very well….”

\-----------------

“Madame Suzuki?”

“Interrogator Suzuki is best. Something troubling you?”

For most of his life, Doh’Val stayed far away from any legal concerns. Someone else took care of them on the rare occasion that they even came up. He couldn’t even decide what question to ask.

The interrogator egged him on. He cleared his throat to buy himself a moment. “Yes. I read the documents for being this advisor—”

“Civilian advocate, you mean?”

“Yes, advocate.” Despite the courtesies and assurances, he felt an enormous power imbalance between him and the interrogators. “This investigation that Min—my patriarch is caught up in. Well, I—” He stroked his beard. “Is all of this _really_ necessary?”

“Under most circumstances, no. But, as you were told, your legal next-of-kin, Mr. Seu, may be important to the Data Consortium’s ongoing investigation. The nature of the investigation is such that we must assess the advocates he has summon. You have held a dual civilian status, requiring us to invoke specific cultural protocols.” She offered a smile. “I mean to say: you are in good hands. No one is in danger. Everything you need to know is in the documents you signed before you were brought to this room.”

“Right,” he mumbled. “Is it also common to separate us?”

“No. This is a special circumstance.”

“And to have a Betazoid.” He gestured to Interrogator Suzuki’s partner whose hands never stopped moving, clearly taking notes.

“All of this was in the releases you signed.”


	4. Well, Actually, Just A Few More....

“Mr. Seu, are you ready to begin?”

He was still eating. “Yes.” He gestured for them to start this ordeal. One of his interrogators was Bajoran, a terrible idea. Was someone expecting them to bond over what they did during the last New Year or wax philosophical about the Prophets?

Interrogator Baran drummed his fingers in agitation. “Mr. Seu, I would prefer that we begin after you have finished your meal.”

“I would have preferred that too,” he answered between slurps. “And somehow, we are here.”

“Mr. Seu. You have been very cooperative up to now.”

He didn’t look up. “Interrogator, we both know that the Federation is not capable of—” He stopped himself, recognizing their shared heritage “I mean to say. I am cooperating, but it is very early, and I am hungry. I can answer your questions while I eat.”

Interrogator Luma offered to her colleague, “There are no rules against letting him eat while we question him. Safety isn’t a concern either.” The shield between them shimmered.

Interrogator Baran ground his teeth as he relented, “Fine. We will start.”

\-----------------

Krax leaned back in his chair to get comfortable, feet up on a corner of the table. “So,” he yawned, “when do I see everyone else?”

“After questioning, as we explained.” Both of his interrogators were quite beguiling females of their species, although he couldn’t quite tell what they were. He couldn’t get too distracted, though. They were still people in authority.

He was hoping they’d give him some more information since then. “Well, how many questions do you have?”

“Just a few.” When the Federation said ‘a few’, that could mean any number between three and fifty. “Normally we have a Betazoid present but for you, my partner here is an expert in Ferengi culture and behavior.”

He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. The Federation really didn’t understand his species if they were sending females there for cultural expeditions. Any female sent deserved a much better assignment. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair. “Ask whatever you want,” he offered. Hopefully, he’d be the first of them to finish with some time for a drink in the space station’s leisure section.

“Of course. Now before you met Seu Minjaral, you lived on Deep Space Nine?”

“I still live there.” His stuff lived there and he was paying rent.

“Yes, I see the records. You were part of the staff at—” she squinted at the name.

“I know, not a very good name for the place.” The owner had insisted on naming every single good thing about the restaurant into the title.

“—And you were also known for writing music for pay?”

He smiled with pride. “A few songs here and there.” Dozens, maybe hundreds, and it made him famous! “I don’t like to brag.” As soon as they were done here and hopefully the females would let him go, he couldn’t wait to brag.

“My dossier says many on the space station knew you for this skill.” That dossier certainly left out all the other things he was known for. Thankfully. “Seven years, is it?” That sounded right.

“And you wrote for Mr. Seu, right?”

Something about the question sounded very wrong. He needed to take his time with his response. “I write for a lot of people.”

“And one of them was Mr. Seu.” She tapped a few times on her console, and on Krax’s display popped up security footage of the first time the four met. Right, Starfleet. Of course they pulled security footage. “This was the four of you. And then this was four of them a few days later.” Footage of them in the guest quarters, including that time Krax pulled a disruptor on them.

He didn’t like this line of questioning. “Yes, I wrote for him.” What was she looking for? “That’s not a crime, right?”

\-----------------

“...And Mr. Seu let you stay with him, you say, after your lengthy journey.” Utrecht found the entry in her dossier. “You and the other Mr. Seu—” “The other one?” “Yes, Doh’Val, member of House Seu.”

A long pause. “I was not aware he had joined House Seu.”

<<He won’t let on but I can feel behind his wall that this is upsetting for him to learn. Be kind.>>

“He joined shortly before leaving Qo’noS and traveling to Earth to stay with his father’s family.” Utrecht knit her brow. “Strange, isn’t it? His parents legally release him from their family, Mr. Seu adopts him, but then instead of going to Bajor, he goes to Earth. Why do you think he would do that?”

<<Confusion spike. Wrong line of questioning.>>

Utrecht didn’t want for his answer. “We can discuss that later. Did Mr. Seu—the Bajoran one—did he discuss any connections? Family, friends, people who had recently contacted him about traveling off-world?” She smiled. “Besides you, of course.”

A pause. “No.” And then, “I should clarify. He did speak of siblings, but his use of the word carried different meaning compared to everyday use.”

“Oh? What was so different?”

He looked up as if what he wanted to say would be written somewhere on the wall. “I am still understanding his planet’s history and his placement in it. What I understand is...the translator may not render my meaning correctly.”

<<He shouldn’t be struggling this much. Something is off.>>

Utrecht offered, “He uses the word to describe other hybrids like him on Bajor.”

A crease in his brown. “Specifically the ones he lived with after leaving his mother’s family.”

“Sark Nima and Sark Cirn. That was the couple he lived with as a child.”

He straightened and for the first time, Utrecht noticed how disturbingly blue his eyes were. “Yes. He did mention them. But he spoke of them as if they died many years ago. Why would they be relevant if they are dead?”

\-----------------

“Mr. Seu has a keen interest in Cardassian culture, does he not? I understand he is fluent in Kardasi and some of its esoteric modes.”

Doh’Val despised the insinuation. “Yes,” he said through his teeth. “It is part of his work.” No, no, that wasn’t good enough and he would not let his patriarch be insulted like this. He spoke more forcefully this time. “It is his right as a hybrid to learn about both sides of his heritage.”

Interrogator Suzuki raised her hands. “Alright, alright. No one is suggesting that there is something wrong with that.”

How dare she say that after, quite literally, suggesting that there was something with that! “Then what are you suggesting?”

She looked over at her Betazoid colleague. They were writing on their displays to each other. How infuriating that he couldn’t grab her by the collar and shake the answer out of her. It took her an offensively long time before she answered. “Did he talk about visiting Cardassian space?”

“Once or twice, yes.” Even if they were a family of two, their family honor would no be tarnished. “But he never spoke with any serious intention.” He could feel where the questions were going, and they were preposterous. “He would never do anything to betray his home.”

“And, the day before he leaves Bajor with no plan for return, the fire at his house was a coincidence.” The table lit up with an image, a photograph with a timestamp and some markings along the side to indicate its status as an official record. “He told you about the fire, didn’t he?” It like an enormous pile of ash amid some charred trees on a gently-sloping hill. It was tightly hemmed in by a large stone circle. “Because you’re family.”

There was now a hard little ball in the pit of his stomach that started weighing on him. “No.” He had to look away from the picture. “He never told me.”

“Well, he contacted you or spoke with you—”

“Madame. What are you suggesting?”

Her countenance stayed eerily cool. “I cannot suggest anything, Mr. Seu the Second. But, I find it very strange that you broke away from your own family, joined his, and then parted ways as if agreeing to never see each other again.”

“And why is that strange.”

“Because becoming next-of-kin allows you to come to his rescue whenever he is in legal trouble. And under any other circumstances, you would simply invoke this fact and both of you would be on your way home. There are a few reasons to do this, Mr. Seu the Second. None of them reflect well on either of you.”

\-----------------

“You’re a historian and preservationist, aren’t you?” Interrogator Baran was attempting to sound casual. “That house you used to live in had historical significance.”

“Yes.” He didn’t like this attempt. “The provincial government told me about how important the house was when they tried taking it from me.” The questions made it harder for him to finish his soup which had cooled from hot to tepid.

“That loss. It must hurt.”

“Please tell me what you want to know.”

The other interrogator, the Betazoid, spoke. “I know you started the fire.” Only now did her black eyes look up at him. “And even if I couldn’t read your mind, I’d know you started it.”

It was inevitable that they’d know and record everything. He never tried hiding it. He didn’t want to forget what he did or how it made him feel. But the guilt and doubt were coming back. The scar on his face felt warm. “Please, I have been on this station for days. Just tell me what you want.”

Interrogator Baran rose from his seat, clearly trying to intimidate him. “Fine. Tell us why you were going to Cardassia.”

“I already answered that question. I was visiting another historian I made contact after the Occupation.”

The interrogator sneered, “Mr. Seu, you’re lying, and you are doing it very badly.” He smashed a few buttons on his own console. For Minjaral, two pictures appeared. To the left, one from the Occupation, a large gathering of hybrids. The right, one after, a gathering of hybrids, himself included, and the Cardassian orphans left behind after the abrupt withdrawal. Red dots marked the people who were in both pictures. Then three searing orange dots in the left picture. “The historian. And Sark Nima and Sark Cirn. The people who kidnapped you.”

He wished the power of his rage alone would snap the man’s neck. “They saved me.”

“Of course they did,” he said dismissively and Minjaral could feel the scar on his face growing hotter. “They were members of the Order of the Lilac at Elemspur, weren’t they?”

The scar on his face kept heating up. “Yes, but that was a long ago—”

“They wanted a closer relationship with Cardassia, didn’t they? They wanted our oppressors to stay.”

If he looked at the interrogator he would start fighting with the shield between to reach through and beat him senseless. “...The Occupation was a very complicated time. I signed the same loyalty oath as everyone else.” As every hybrid and abandoned Cardassian. The government would never understand how insulting it had been to have that oath thrown in front of him after the disgusting things he did to protect other Bajorans. Because of who he was, they just didn’t think they could trust him. “I never joined the Order. It...I did not believe in it the way others did.”

“But they distributed your work, didn’t they? And there were other groups you were part.” Another image. A facsimile of a pamphlet he’d written. “’Why We Are One Blood, or Incest As a Political Framework For Understanding Our Oppressors.’ That was what you thought about the Cardassians, didn’t you? They were the long-lost relatives to Bajorans. Yes, you didn’t join them, but you didn’t stop them from spreading your ideas, didn’t you?”

Still he kept his gaze down to keep his composure. “...No, I did not.” Where to even start explaining? The interrogator was young and there were so many things he would not remember.

“Hybrids in the Order, they all began taking the same clan name, Sark.”

Minjaral kept silent rather than dignify that remark with an answer.

“Mr. Seu.” The condescension his voice made Minjaral tense his hands into hidden fists. He didn’t see the interrogator slap away his colleague’s hand. “I think you do believe in the disgusting and heretical ideas that the Order of the Lilac believed, that you were going to meet Sark Sinjo who you met through Sark Nima and Sark Cirn, and you are interested in using your position to bring Bajor back under Cardassian influence. I think you are going there to find your father and claim a place in his clan. And finally, I think you are selfish for destroying a house that could have been giving to a deserving Bajoran family.”

The words leaped out of his throat. “If you knew what happened in that house, you would never set foot in it.”

“I know all about it,” he said mockingly.

Minjaral was on his feet and ready for a fight. “You know nothing! You—” The far-off sound of Nima’s voice broke through and said _never let them win_. Deep, slow breaths would helped him and by the fifth, he found his control. His face and neck felt like it was on fire. Decades later and he could still feel the iron on his face. He would keep voice level and polite. “I would like to invoke my right to request a different interrogator on the grounds of cultural prejudice. I want Interrogator Baran dismissed.”

“Mr. Seu, you are obstructing—”

“I, Seu Minjaral, officially invoke my right to choose my interrogator.” He leaned forward. “Get out.”

Interrogator Luma looked up at her colleague, her mouth a single line across her face. “The subject has dismissed you. I cannot stop him.”

Interrogator Baran’s face twisted in anger. But, as asked, he went for the door.


	5. How The End Began

Krax was waiting on the replicator for his beverage. “The process for songwriting is like that, I suppose. I get some strange requests, but I never found any use in thinking too much about that part. Everyone wants something different.”

They had been patient and even kind, not interrupting. They seemed interested in what he was saying. He wasn’t used to talking about his hobby like this. He liked it. Maybe this was what Minjaral had been talking about with those conferences.

“I still can’t believe I’m someone famous, or semi-famous, whatever it is.” He chuckled. “Musician 52366. Maybe I should start calling myself that.”

“You seem close to Mr. Seu. Did he talk often about going to Cardassia Prime?”

Krax took a sip from his drink because he needed time to completely process the question. Did he hear that right?

“Mr. Krax, did you not understand the question?”

The Federation was tone-deaf about many things. But they could not possibly be oblivious even on this matter. “Have you met him?” he ventured as politely as he could muster. “Face-to-face, I mean.”

They paused, exchanging various meaningful glances. “We’ve seen pictures.”

He stepped closer to them, mindful of the screen. “Then. Hmm, wait. So you know, I mean, it is obvious from looking at him why he would never visit...right?”

“Actually, he was part of a movement that considered Cardassian space their birthright.”

\-----------------

Interrogator Rustrid touched her elbow, speaking aloud for the first time since they entered. “Baran was moved. He’s trading with Suzuki,” he whispered in her ear.

Utrecht snorted with a smirk. “All that confidence that he could get the subject to talk. Mr. Seu’s request, right?” Probably got annoyed and sent him out. “Yeah. He’s a hothead. I don’t understand how he got assigned to this.”

“I’m not allowed to know.”

Suzuki had a lighter touch. But for now, they should continue. In the meantime, she had asked her subject to record on a star chart where he had visited in the past few years, dates, and the length of his stay at each destination. “Is the information complete?”

“Yes.” The stylus lay next to the large star chart displayed in the table. He seemed to always fold his hands in his lap as soon as he was done using them. A bit weird.

<<I sense good faith, but he is also like water and flows around before being grasped. I think he has practice in casually blocking Betazoids without meditation. Take him off-balance so he will become solid. Self-imposed barrier holding. Connected to his hands. Thoughts of family members right now.>>

His star chart popped up on her side. Oh. He will need to explain a few things. “Thank you. Now, I would like you to look at something. It will be an overlay of two star charts. One of them is the information you provided, and the other—” she tapped a few buttons so the overlay would appear on his end, “A—is the same star chart with your whereabouts based on all of the checkpoints you visited.”

He studied with interest for, Utrecht guessed, about five seconds before that practiced Vulcan mask fell over his face.

<<From water to solid. Sudden thinning of barrier. I think he’s afraid.>>

She continued, “You will notice that the star chart we have shows you in far, far more places than you have told us. In some cases, we aren’t even certain how you got there. It took you a full year to reach Mr. Seu after you contacted him, yes? What were you doing?”

“Many of these are impossible as I have never visited them.” He would not break eye contact. “As for what I did, I was delayed. I relied heavily for my survival on...the other Mr. Seu. On occasion, we evaded checkpoints and custom officers.”

<<Not trying to intimidate, attempt to appear honest. Barrier is very thin, feeling some emotions now. His family was being harassed by unknown people during his absences. He is afraid for them now.>>

\-----------------

A short break. The interrogators had left. Doh’Val was standing over by his window when the interrogators came back. One of them was new. He seemed irritated.

“Thank you for your patience. I will be conducting the remainder of your questioning.”

“May I ask why?”

“No,” he snarled. Part of him wondered if this was Minjaral’s doing. “Please sit.”

In any other situation, Doh’Val would have explained to the man why everything about his behavior was offensive. For now, he could only comply with the request.

The questions came rapidly “Thank you. You are considered a member of House Seu.” “Yes.”

“But before that, you were House Nakarmi.” “Yes.” He pushed down the painful memory.

“When did the change occur?” “Four months ago, the day before I left Qo’noS for Earth to visit family.”

“And no contact with your patriarch, Mr. Seu, up until now.” “Yes.”

“And why did you become part of his house?”

He couldn’t find a concise way to explain what had happened.

“Mr. Seu the Second,” he pressed sternly, “please explain the events which caused you to relinquish any claim of family with your blood relations in favor of associating yourself legally with a man who was an acquaintance at best.”

++++++++++++

The night air was sweet as they walked back to his home. They had just finished the last in another series of successful endeavors for the patron, and usual a small feast at Morath’s home followed. Doh’Val felt a spring in his step. They were making progress and pretty soon, they could take on students!

“Can you imagine? We could start our own school,” he mused aloud.

Vudic nodded with consideration. “A school could be beneficial.”

“Does that mean you like the idea?” He was taking Kujvak’s advice to heart and slowly extinguishing his affection. Now he noticed flaws. Vudic did not like to commit to ideas but rely on others not noticing the behavior. He made his statements purposefully ambiguous in response to other’s emotions. Doh’Val had learned to start confronting him when this happened.

Though careful not to show it, Vudic very much did not like these confrontations. His wording always gave him away. “It is an idea with a lot of risk and unknown rewards, and I do not have adequate information to determine its value, if it has value at all.”

“That can be easily arranged.” He was certain of the idea’s worth. “With teachers like us, how could the idea possibly have no value?” They reached the steps of his home. His parents no longer felt required to attend their concerts, giving all of them more room to work. They were visiting friends for the evening, expected to be home in the morning.

As soon as they came in, Doh’Val went to the bloodwine cabinet. There was one he’d been saving for a celebration. Maybe he could finally convince Vudic to have a sip instead of abstaining. A drunk Vulcan would certainly be good for a laugh.

Without thinking to knock, he opened Krax’s door. “Come—”

Minjaral and Krax had stopped to look at him. He saw cases strewn about the floor. They were for travel. Krax had been folding clothes.

They were packing.

Krax just sighed at Minjaral. “I told you we should have done this last night.”

The word almost caught in Doh’Val’s throat. “...We?”

++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++

From the first few seconds, Minjaral already liked this new interrogator. She hadn’t said anything yet, still reviewing notes and whispering with her partner. Maybe he should get something to drink from the replicator while he waited.

“Thank you for your patience,” she said at last. “Well. Regarding your house, arson is outside the scope of our investigation. However, I must explain that we are required to report what we know to local authorities.”

He never thought about that. In his mind, he would disappear and everyone would think he was dead. “I understand.”

She furrowed her brow. “We are not going to send you back. But if you do return, there is a chance you will be captured for the fire.” Her frown was surprisingly sympathetic. “It _was_ registered as a piece of pre-Occupation history.”

His heart sank. “...I understand.”

Interrogator Suzuki tapped the table for a moment, filling the silence. “I understand wanting a fresh start. A chance to—I’m sorry, do not answer that. I just have a few questions about your time on Qo’noS. You formally adopted Doh’Val, Son of Carl, while on Qo’noS.”

“Yes, as a family member.”

“Could you enlighten me on why?”

“He needed to dissociate himself from his parents. Complicated customs, you know how Klingons are about everything.”

She folded her hands on the table. “I am afraid I don’t. Could you elaborate?”

Perhaps he should start from the beginning. “Our papers were set to expire—myself and the other two—yes, Vudic and Krax—and we were preparing to leave….”

++++++++++++++

Seeing the poor man stand dumbstruck in the doorway, Minjaral found himself second-guessing their plan. He set down everything in his hands. “Doh’Val,” he began cautiously. “Please, let us explain.”

He said nothing. Just a stare of anguish and confusion.

“It is time for us to leave.” He regretted not finding kinder words. “We discussed this. Krax and I have our own lives.” He didn’t think it wise to mention the conference. “Perhaps we will return. Not soon, but one day.”

“...What about this?”

Much as he wanted, he stopped himself from looking away. He wasn’t ashamed, and he wouldn’t let the other think otherwise. “This has been a unique experience that I will reflect on for the rest of my life, but I have work and students and a reputation beyond this endeavor.” Out of the corner of his good eye, he noticed that Krax had already gone back to folding clothes.

Vudic approached from behind their host to create yet another unknown variable for the already tenuous situation, perhaps realizing he’d been suddenly left alone. “Oh, are you leaving, Krax?” he asked with characteristic curiosity.

Krax nodded, ignoring everyone else now. “I should get back to the station, but I liked living in a house again.”

“Well, that is unfortunate. The three of us can plan—”

“Minjaral is leaving too,” cut in Doh’Val.

“That is equally unfortunate. But come now, they need to pack. We must plan.” He tugged at Doh’Val’s sleeve to urge him away

He bellowed in anger, “Enough!” He slapped away the other’s hand. “I will not be handled like a child in my own house!” This certainly made things interesting. “You do not understand what is being done here!”

“Doh’Val, we cannot keep them against their wills. We will continue our work, and we have learned a great deal from them which we can use.” In truth, Minjaral knew that neither had learned enough to even begin truly incorporating that knowledge into their own compositions. And he knew that Vudic knew.

“Why do I try to show you what is at stake over and over when you have no interest in understanding? My livelihood, my reputation, and my family honor are of great value, and in _my_ homeland are how I have been able to give you the hospitality you have enjoyed for _months!_ ”

The two of them were distracted with each other now, bickering back and forth. Good. They wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t stopped packing.


	6. Settling the End Like Warriors

Considering how little Krax had given them, he suspected that he would be out of the room shortly and could take a leisurely stroll around the rest of the station. He leaned back in the chair and noticed that he should get his nails professionally cleaned.

“So, you had been on Qo’noS and you were going to leave?” asked one of the interrogators.

“We had done enough.”

“And Mr. Seu the Second. He was not pleased.”

Krax didn’t look up. “He thought we owed him more than we had already given….”

++++++++++++++

The noise was steel wool on his eardrums, but he would persist so long as the chaos in his room did not harm his progress. Krax turned his attention to mentally marking which trinket he should try keeping and which could be sold for a good price. He heard the arguing but didn’t listen.

Doh’Val’s voice rose above everything else, including the sound of Krax’s own thoughts. “We had an agreement—”

Krax snarled back,“That was never written down!” This man had no right to presume anything. Krax leaped over his boxes to close the distance between them. “You are young and you do not understand the way of things beyond your home, so I will explain that you _never_ have an agreement unless it is written down! I came here as a _favor_ and to _learn_ , and I have gone far beyond what is reasonable. We are done. Never again will I consider transactions of kindness again.”

His demeanor shifted. “A contract? I can provide a contract—”

“No!” Krax pressed his fingers squarely in the other’s chest. “Your contract will be poor and useless! What will be in this contract? Will you ask us what we want?”

Nothing. Just as Krax had suspected.

“You never thought to ask.” With his point made, he walked back to where he’d been folding clothes. “Go, Doh’Val. Our business with you is done.”

By now, even Vudic was helping sort through the numerous items strewn through the room. The fact remained that all of them had lives beyond this house, and they couldn’t loan themselves to this endeavor. All their host could do was stand in the doorway and sulk.

Well, he could do one more thing. “So, you will leave and return to, what? A people who hate you? A lie? And leave behind glory and fortune?” He couldn’t stop them, but he could be unconscionably cruel.

Minjaral, to Krax’s astonishment, kept his composure. “Yes.” If the comments made any difference, he didn’t show it. “You do not understand what you speak of."

“And _what_ could your old lives offer that I cannot?”

Why would he keep talking? “Spark! Inspiration!” snapped Krax, not letting their insipid host insult them further. “I have never written for a more _boring_ client in my life!” He came back again, this time pushing himself nose-to-nose and up on his toes, yelling.

It seemed to work. Doh’Val reeled back, yielding to the assault.

“This patron of yours does not deserve to hear my people’s music. He says he likes me, but he resents where I come from. Meanwhile I am writing these boring variations of the same thing over and over! Was _this_ your vision of some great masterpiece? You dare insult Ferengi music when _this_ is what you have to offer?”

He had only enough time to draw breath for a retort before Krax lobbed another attack.

“ _Where_ do you think all of this came from?” He gestured wildly to the room. “I did what I do best. I found a network of smaller patrons and I sold them songs. _How_ do you think people halfway across the continent knew to come to our concerts? Your patron would rather that _no one_ knew!”

“That—that is not true—”

“ _Enough_!” He was beyond shouting now, growling every word. He poked the other’s shoulder to punctuate his word. “Because the truth, _the truth,_ of this remains—I. Do not. Need you.”

Doh’Val’s bluster had deflated, hopefully from Krax’s verbal assault. He turned to the one he expected to support him without condition."Vudic, is this true?"

He said nothing, continuing about his work. Up to this point, he seemed desperate to become invisible.

Krax would not allow this and slapped the box from his hands. "For once, you will be _helpful_ instead of slinking away from anything unpleasant." He was fired up. He could take every one of them. He was small but he was fierce.

To his credit, Vudic maintained composure in the face of rudeness. "This is a very emotional conversation. Honesty can be detrimental in such situations. Until all of us can engage with logic, we—"

"I speak for everyone when I say that we have had enough of your logic.”

Later recollection will prove otherwise but in the moment, Krax swore he saw Vudic roll his eyes. Well, it was the primary complaint everyone had about his people, and lodging it became a cliche in its own right. "Then I have nothing to contribute."

Minjaral, a true ally throughout their stay, interjected calmly. "I think you have a quite a bit to contribute, Vudic." His next words were as spectacular to Krax as the deftest sleight of hand practitioner. "You alone can evaluate our time here without the pulls of emotions. You alone could potentially persuade us to return after arranging our affairs, even staying permanently."

He touched his chin with a single finger, a tell Krax had learned; how easily Vulcans could be swayed the moment one appealed to their love of logic. "If I gave my evaluation, you would agree to act on it?"

"Without question." Of course they would. They knew they were right.

++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++

Interrogator Utrecht decided to leave her subject in silence for a bit while she collected additional information. The anomalies in the star charts and his apparent honesty deepened the mystery. According to him and his documents, he left Qo'noS only to visit his homeworld during his extended stay in Klingon space. The checkpoint data showed him all over Federation space and then some. The notation feeds from the other interrogators showed the other three recounting their visits to the planet at the same time. But all of them were questionable sources. The Klingon had very personal ties to the Imperial Vanguard, rumored as cover for the Empire's nascent spy network. The Ferengi undeniably had traded in sensitive intelligence, passing it to interested parties through commissioned songs. And the third...he was the reason for all of this. Interrogator Utrecht saw great plumes of smoke surrounding these four. The fire had to be here somewhere.

Their time on Qo’noS. That seemed a sore point for all of them. They should press it a little harder.

"Tell me more about Qo'noS."

"My stay was long. Please specify."

"We can start with why you left."

"My papers expired."

"Yes, but you could easily renew them."

"I had personal matters to settle at home. Renewal at the time would be illogical until after my personal matters were settled."

<<Ask about his hands.>>

"Is it related to why you cover your hands?"

Ah, yes. The Vulcan Stonewall. Every single one she had ever interrogated eventually fell on this little trick. Any time a question became too pointed and too personal, they turned to statues. No speaking, no eye contact. A perfect model of stoicism, all done in service of hiding the truth.

"Mr. Jalal, I am required to inform you that while it is your choice not to answer my questions, I am not finished until I am satisfied with the information you have provided. As it stands, we have not reached that point."

Nothing. No surprise.

"I see. Well, I must then inform you that your failure will affect your position to act as civilian advocate for Mr. Seu. Your desire to withhold information could jeopardize his freedom."

<<Ask about his lungs.>>

Utrecht steepled her fingers on the table. "How is your breathing since you came home?"

His blue eyes instantly shot to her colleague. "Adequate."

"But not before."

He took his time with the response. "There was an incident."

\-----------------

Interrogator Baran drummed his fingers on the table, possibly some attempt to irritate him and goad him into some admission. "You were angry."

That didn't capture all the nuances of the situation. "Patronage is a delicate and complex relationship. I did not fully convey the proper way to disengage one's self from a patron. It is not like pulling a splinter. Think of it more like caring for a blade."

"I have never needed that skill," he condescended.

"It is an art."

++++++++++++++

Vudic's burning blue eyes said everything before a word left his lips.

The expression on his face was cold. Like the one in that dark moment on that forsaken planet where they didn’t know if they would come alive."This arrangement—the presence of your patron—stifles creativity." Trying to meet his gaze was like staring into the sun. Impossible. "True expression can only be achieved through security of one's being. Freedom from peril is the only way to foster great art."

"But, but what about Krax! He created great music living in a metal tube!"

The little goblin uttered one word of defense before Vudic came to his aid. After everything they had been through, he comes to their defense. "We cannot judge how life on a space station freed him. We can only acknowledge that it did. We cannot understand why Minjaral is drawn to a culture which does not accept him. We can only acknowledge this fact. Our perception of facts does not change them."

"And what of you?"

The silence pained him. But what broke the silence hurt just as much. "Art is not an object. It is the exploration of how one experiences the universe. Through art comes revelation of one's self and of the universe. It is unique not only to the artist but to the moment in which it is created. Art and the artist are symbiotic. One does not exist without the other."

Doh’Val’s voice kept catching in his throat.

He was so cruel. "It is illogical to create art which does not reflect one's self. Your patron does not want art because he has no interest in the artist. He is only interested in indulging his own emotions.” A heart-stopping pause. “And my role here has become a stain on my character. Krax is right. Our need for the patron is material, not artistic."

The sleepless nights working, the unending kindness of his family, the distances that people traveled to enjoy these labors—to Vudic, it was a stain. All of it. He remembered suddenly the knife in his hand, not sure when he had pulled it from his person. The torture this man had brought upon Doh'Val. The thorn in his heart.

No more.

He flew at Vudic, knife poised to carve him like a wooden doll.

He didn't see what was before him, only the pain and emptiness of his mind's eye.

He never saw what hit him. However, the force of the blow rippled through his body, turning his knees to soft sand as he stumbled back. He felt himself falling on the doorframe. A shooting pain ricocheted through his jaw. The knife. He couldn't feel it in his hand.

Through blurry eyes, he found Vudic standing over him, fists at the ready. Within his churning squall of emotions, he found something unexpected—admiration.

They would settle this as warriors.

++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++

"I don't understand," interrupted Interrogator Suzuki. "Mr. Seu the Second was angry with you, but he attacked—who was it—Mr. Jalal?"

"They are...." No need to reveal what he knew, even if it was still speculation. "They are unusual."

"And during this altercation?"

Minjaral regarded the empty bowl in front of him. "Someone needed to intervene. I was confident that I could subdue them easily…."

++++++++++++++

Someone should intervene, certainly. Minjaral was not that person. The other two had spilled into the hallway to work out their quarrel with their fists.

Krax had stopped everything he was doing to open his moneybox. “Place your bet. Which do you think will win?”

Even with emotions high, this seemed in bad taste. “You know better.”

“I find handling money calms me.” Of course it did.

Leaning over the doorway, he listened for an update. A bit of banging, some cursing, and one or two shouts of pain—definitely Doh’Val. Hm. “What do you think?”

“I think Vudic stands a chance.”

“A bold choice. Not the Klingon and their love of fighting?”

“I had a great fortune of watching a Vulcan from Starfleet—a mechanic, if I recall—subdue three Klingon warriors while I waited tables. She had little more than her fists.” A wistful smile came to his face. “I still wish she had stayed on the station longer.”

Some muffled crashing came from the hallway. He would give them a few more minutes before doing anything. Layers to their relationship were being stripped bare, and they should handle that on their own.

Minjaral glanced at the moneybox. “I shall wager against you.”

“You will not win,” chuckled Krax.

“But if we wager the same, where is the excitement?” A serene moment in this chaotic evening.

“How much?”

Minjaral’s mental estimations were interrupted by a shout. “No! No!” Doh’Val’s voice. He and Krax locked eyes, asking each other the same question. _Must I?_ _Can’t it wait?_

They kept listening. The house became quiet. And now Krax’s ease disappeared. “I think,” he started in a hushed voice, “that sounds like someone choking.”

Doh'Val's voice rang out. “ _VUDIC."_


	7. Revealing All In The End

“And Mr. Seu intervened _after_ the incident had occurred,” she clarified.

Krax nodded with a shrug. “We thought they were fine. And it kept them occupied, leaving us to pack.”

“But you knew first, by listening, that they had gone beyond mere fighting.”

He sighed, staring past them. “It sounded like someone drowning…..”

++++++++++++++

They raced to the family gathering room, the central firepit as the only source of light. Doh’Val leaned over the backless couch. He was holding something—someone—Oh.

Minjaral reached them first. “Vudic, Vudic, see my face. See—Up here—Vudic, see my face—” he continued, his voice instantly commanding the situation.

When Krax reached the scene, everything became clearer: Vudic laid out on the couch, a thin blade—half the thickness of his finger—up to its hilt in the middle of his chest. Doh’Val crouched over him, barely containing his hysteria. The light of the fire danced on an ever-growing shiny spot on his dark tunic. The sound source—Vudic , eyes closed, gasping for air. His chest would not heave. Each failed attempt to sit up left him writhing.

“Vudic, look at me,” Minjaral continued until he got his way. “Vudic, Vu—good, listen to me. Your lung must have collapsed. The first time is the worst. By the third, you hardly notice. I am going to help you, but you must lie still.”

Still gasping, he obeyed with superb calm even as his face turned ashen green.

A large black knife in Minjaral’s hand, he cut clothing away. Did he always carry that?

Like deep green slime, blood oozed from behind the blade in little rhythmic spurts with miniscule _bloops._ The wound was just below the middle of his rib cage. Blood covered the rest of his trunk and kept coming. Would he die in front of them?

“Doh’Val, hold him still.” Minjaral tore cloth strips from the destroyed tunic. _Brrrrip._ “Talk to him. Keep him conscious.”

Getting orders gave him composure. “What should I say?”

“I would begin with an apology.” To Krax, he murmured, “The deed and some glue.”

Krax dashed back to his room, snatching up a sheet of plastic with details of land ownership for a worthless tract somewhere in the province; winnings from a night of gambling. The only glue he could find was for fixing his camera, but it would have to do.

With a single, elegant motion, Minjaral’s knife sliced the deed in half. _Rrrit._ “Blot the wound.”

Krax mopped up as much as he could with the drenched strip. _Bloop bloop bloop bloop_...there was so much. It seemed only a moment of distraction had passed before an elbow threw him out of the way. Plastic wobbled, then slapped against flesh. Metal clanged against the floor.

The thin blade, more like a metal rod with a point, rolled into the shadows. It looked the length of Krax’s hand, maybe longer.

“Vudic, take a short break.”

The sound brought a wave of nausea through Krax. A breath cut short by a gurgling rasp, then a cough ending in a gag.

“Vudic, I am almost done. I need you to be perfectly still. I have to cut you open.”

++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++

Interrogator Utrecht’s subject may be tight-lipped, but her notation feed flooded with accounts of a very dramatic evening from the others. She could write her report without his cooperation, if necessary.

“This incident sounds dramatic from what the others say. Vulcans don’t normally let anyone touch their person.”

“My other choice was death.”

“I thought Vulcans did not fear death.”

“That is true, but my death in that moment would have been empty and without benefit.”

“I also suppose that during this, control of your telepathic nature may have...slipped? Perhaps you learned of Mr. Seu’s past or any future plans.”

“Like all Vulcans, I learned at a young age to control all aspects of myself, regardless of circumstances.”

“Then I suppose your friends are mistaken in their own accounts…..”

\-----------------

“Are you aware that Vulcans have strong telepathic abilities?” Interrogator Baran kept a predatory tone.

“Yes,” lied Doh’Val. It came up in their conversations on occasion, but he never thought to pursue the subject except during their first encounter at Talas.

“They require skin-to-skin contact to use them, but even the slightest contact can be enough.”

Skin contact, he knew. But he always assumed some limits. “Oh.” If they saw each other after this, he had at least a hundred questions that needed answers.

“You must have experienced this.”

Their year together made so much sense now. He felt it that last night, but he’d been feeling it so many others. The thing that was warm and viscous and gentle which sloshed around in his mind and took away his discomfort. “Excuse me?”

“The fight, the stabbing—the whole evening. You must have felt something. Contact enough to learn something about Mr. Seu. Plans or secrets, perhaps.”

“I felt a great many things.”

The interrogator learned over the table. “Both you and Mr. Seu were in close physical space with a strongly telepathic species, one known for transferring memories and consciousness between each other. I find it unlikely that you learned nothing of Mr. Seu….”

++++++++++++++

Why. Why. Why.

He didn’t know.

Vudic’s terracotta skin, now ashen from blood loss, remained dry when he expected a thick sheen of sweat. But Doh’Val couldn’t stop from getting green pus-like blood in his hair and on his face and on the couch. His education only covered defense. The true power came from healing, and only soldiers were taught such arts.

_I never meant for this._

Each breath sounded like his last. His cracked lips whispered something, whatever prayers or mantras he was taught for such a situation. His people had a meditation practice for everything.

_Vudic, please forgive me._

He could only imagine the agony as Vudic’s face betrayed nothing.

_Please stay awake._

Darkness. The room around him was gone. He was floating in a sea of black ink. The rest of the world lay in the distance, too far away to bother him. A place without time.

A presence nearby. Heavy. It was warm and gentle and viscous. So familiar, too….

Another. It came from the depths. A million hollow ice shards. Splinters.

Holes in his guts. Holes in his bones.

The heavy hot iron on his face.

The drill in his brain.

Chains. Ankles. Wrists.

The ice shards were pulling him down, down, down.

The warm gentle viscous thing fell on him, enveloping his being to take him up again.

“Doh’Val.” The voice came closer.

The viscousness brought him up further.

“ _Doh’Val_.”

The family room came back. The fire, the horrible thing he had done. Krax and Minjaral had been venting the wound and dabbing up blood. Something residual remained, a sense that he should grieve instead of moving on.

“Shift him,” commanded Minjaral, a voice that sent a chill down his spine. “I need to make the incision.”

++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++

Interrogator Suzuki jotted a few notes. “And Mr. Jalal at this time, was he conscious?”

“He appeared that way.”

“And you are aware of his species telepathic abilities.”

“We discussed the topic as it related to his research, but I have no experience.”

“Are you certain that you experienced nothing in that time?”

Minjaral didn’t like the wording of that question. “Not so much….”

++++++++++++++

He had one opportunity, a single slice standing between life and death. He held the black knife deep in the fire to sterilize the blade and minimize bleeding. Surely the man could tolerate without a burn without dying, right?

The blade glowed like dying embers. No water to cool it, so he used one of the blood-drenched cloth strips. Prophets, the smell.

Before heating the knife, he made a small cut to mark his place—the right side facing the fire, along the ribs and under the armpit. If he missed, there’s no telling the damage. The other two held his patient in place.

“Wait,” called Doh’Val. The knife was cooling. They were losing time. “You _have_ done this before, right?”

Minjaral positioned the knife. For once, it was dark enough for his good eye to focus, “Only to myself.”

“ _WHA—!”_ The knife went in hot, sizzling with blood. The smell. It was always the hardest part. He swallowed the vomit in his throat.

The slightest gasp escaped Vudic’s lips as he tensed, the only hint of the brutality that Minjaral knew all too well from the procedure.

Deeper. The only voice that ever truly commanded authority was the one Cardassian doctors used on their patients. He did his best impression. “Vudic, you must relax.” He sneaked a finger into the wound behind the knife.

On cue, his muscles went loose.

Deeper. More blood now, along with fluids of uglier colors. All of it looked like different kinds of pus, but he had no knowledge of Vulcan anatomy or what was normal. They had to hope he was otherwise healthy. The smell choked him.

He stopped short. If he miscalculated, he could rob this musician of the one thing he loved. “Take a short breath.”

It was a normal breath. Thank the Prophets.

Darkness. The room around him was gone. He was floating in a sea of black ink. The rest of the world lay in the distance, too far away to bother him. A place without time.

Another. A presence in the darkness. It was soft and kind and thick. Should reach out to it?

And still another. Large and bumpy. They should keep to themselves. He tried pushing the other presence away.

No. It wouldn’t go away. No, no, no. It was hurting itself. How was it hurting itself?

It was him. No matter how much he tried to help, the presence kept impaling itself on him.

Empty house. Rags for clothes. An old couple living as servants.

A beautiful celebration, more colors than he ever thought could be contained in clothing.

Children playing.

Lightning cutting through the blood.

An obsession which consumed the heart.

The thick presence came to the rescue, enveloping the other.

“How is he?”

Like emerging from underwater, he came back to his surroundings instantly. His finger and knife were still inside the wound. “I can feel the lung.” He prayed that he hadn’t severed a nerve. “Bind him up.”

Vudic never flinched, even as the tremors started. They were in his hands at first but quickly began spreading.

“You need to stop moving, Vudic. You must stop.”

This time, Vudic disobeyed. He couldn’t control the tremors which now spread through his body. Why couldn’t he control them?

Doh’Val, at last, was helpful. “This happens after an injury,” he assured before rushing to the back area of the house. He returned a moment later with a large dark blanket and a rectangular box under one arm, presumably his personal medic kit.

Stepping back to wipe down his blade on his clothes, Minjaral found a moment of clarity. The familiarity in Doh’Val’s handling as he riffled through the kit to pull a large pouch—synthetic blood, based on the color—and the care he used to find and tap the vein on Vudic’s arm told the story.

Now he understood the encounter in that sea of darkness.


	8. The End

“You suspect “something” happened?”

“It must have,” replied Krax.

“Why do you say that?”

“I just know these things….”

++++++++++++++

A push on his brain quickly rebuffed. He felt it twice while holding Vudic in place. Telepathic species never can keep themselves to themselves.

But the worst had ended. Blanket and fluid feed in place, Vudic’s shaking dissipated. His head lolled over to face the fire. He had stopped murmuring, now asleep.

All of them wore his blood. “Give me your clothes,” insisted Doh’Val. “I need to burn them.” It seemed unnecessary but no one else came up with a better way to dispose of everything. Krax, of course, only stripped to his undershirt, keep his trousers and all other underpinnings intact.

None seemed comfortable with leaving and Vudic couldn’t be moved right away, so they all sat on their own couches around the fire with Doh’Val sitting next to their wounded colleague. Still and silent they sat, facing the glow and heat of the firepit.

The fire still burned brightly when Doh’Val spoke up. “Minjaral,” he asked slowly, staring into the flames. “How many times have you needed the surgery you just did?”

To this, Minjaral didn’t answer right away; he was counting. “...Six? Yes, six.”

Krax couldn’t stop himself. “That can’t be true.”

He smirked. “The last two times were when I operated on myself. Quite a while ago.”

More questions were written on Doh’Val’s face, but he fumbled with the words. “I saw an emptiness,” he stammered, still not looking up from the flames. “That was you. I saw you. Didn’t I.”

Minjaral sighed, leaning forward such that the shadows perfectly highlighted the numerous scars on his bare back. The facial scar was covered by dark. “That was my life for a long time. The memory lingers.” He turned away. “It always lingers.”

“You feel it all the time.”

The shadows made him look so sad. “No. When I compose and when I play, it is gone. And I can forget, if for a moment.”

Krax felt a special bond with Minjaral. They were never pampered growing up like these two. He knew that life had been unkind to the man, but he never realized the extent. For once, Krax wished he _could_ experience telepathy and learn what Doh’Val had learned.

“Doh’Val, understand that this is why I cannot stay. Music is—” he stopped, swallowing hard. “Music was the only thing that kept me alive for many years. Writing to express what was in my life. It is how I found meaning in my life, and,” he stopped again, a shaky sigh. “It heals me. I, I cannot heal myself here. I have too many wounds in my soul still.”

Again, they fell silent. Impossible. One wanted them to stay, the other needed to go. Both were more important than the other from how they saw it.

Minjaral spoke again. “Doh’Val. I am sorry. But I just cannot stay.”

“Go.” The dark circles under his eyes were more apparent now. “I already dishonored my family by assaulting a guest under our roof.” He covered his face in his bloodied hands. “I never should have left the Empire….”

“Your family will be comfortable without us.”

He snarled but wouldn’t look up. “You do not understand.” Krax heard a stifled sniffle. “I tried to kill a guest in my parents’ home and my other two guests are leaving, a clear sign that I am not honorable. My parents will bear the burden of my dishonor.” The sound of someone swallowing sorrow. “And I am hybrid. My dishonor is proof that my father does not deserve his place under Morath’s patronage.”

Doh’Val had never sounded this fearful before. “I found you three and if I cannot find anyone like you, and I doubt that I ever could. Morath could do anything from punish me through less patronage to break all ties with my parents.”

Oh, it was a _very_ good thing that they were leaving. “What can you do to stop him from punishing your family.”

His breath rattled. “I.” Krax could hear his heartbeat pick up suddenly. “I. I can go into exile. Away. They can disown me and I can leave.” His dark eyes were bloodshot.

“Exile. In another province, I take it? For a few years?”

“No. Off the planet. Forever.”

“Doh’Val, that is extreme—”

He spat his words in cool anger. “Do you have a better idea? I even discussed it with Vudic. I, I knew this is where this whole ordeal would end. What would you have me do, Minjaral? Cut down my patron? Tell him that I am now _free_ and will write for _anyone_ , like a prostitute?” He said to Krax with some regret, “My apologies.”

Krax had stopped caring much for his opinion halfway through their stay and therefore couldn’t bother being offended. But the apology was an appreciated courtesy.

“I must leave. Even hiding with friends could put my family at risk.”

Minjaral’s expression hardened. “Then. Perhaps you should ask yourself if it is really such a tragedy that you must go.”

Krax had to say something. “Minjal, be less harsh,” he chirped, now taken to pacing about the room. He couldn’t stay still for much longer. “Remember what he is giving up for us. He is not ready and we cannot force him. He is still young.”

Doh’Val growled in response, “Must you bring up my age so often?”

“Yes.” Minjaral interrupted. “Because you _are_ young. Wise old men do not stab their friends.”

Much as Doh’Val wanted to retort, Krax could see the words die on his lips.

“Doh’Val. Please, do not lie to me when I ask this.” Krax could feel the question coming. The fire seemed more foreboding, the shadows harsher. The whole house itself seemed to hold its breath. “What do you feel for him?”

He looked to Vudic, peaceful in sleep. “Everything. Nothing. I thought I knew, once. Now, I cannot say.” It was a stupid answer, but it _was_ honest. “...I never met another hybrid before him. Or you.”

“Perhaps leaving here could give you clarity, then.”

“I.” He turned to the shadows on the wall. “This is my home,” he murmured, melancholy on his voice. “There, there is still so much of my own world I have not seen.” He swallowed hard, now unsure where to even look. “I—Life outside the Empire is messy. No one cares for honor. The rules are that there are no rules. Nothing is absolute….”

“Doh’Val, listen to me.” Minjaral stood and closed the distance between them, sitting on the edge of the couch. “When you came to me, I saw bright young men with an impossible dream, but I was charmed by your sincerity. Do you still believe that you can bring about a new age of culture on your planet?”

“I, I want to. But how do I do that?”

A deep sigh. “Doh’Val. Let me tell you this. The house I live in. That once belonged to my mother’s family. And.” He looked away, wincing. “They were...they were not kind. Everyone in the town where you stayed, they knew. They saw what my family did to me.” He gestured vaguely to his face.

The words left Krax’s mouth before he could correct himself. “Did, did they….” He already knew the answer. “No one stopped them.”

A mirthless smile. “Not even once. No one said anything. A teacher traveling through the town saw me and took me away from my family.” A shred of true joy came to his good eye. “For many years, I never visited that place. After the Occupation, I received a message. All of my family had died. I was the sole heir to everything they owned, including the house. By then, I had gained a reputation as a composer and musician. I thought that I would go back to the house. I was unsure of what to do next. I could give everything away to the people of town and wash my hands of my past.”

Doh’Val spoke up this time. “But you stayed.”

“Yes. Because when I came to my home, _everyone_ greeted me like an old friend. They invited me to their homes, introduced me to the new families, and they insisted on sharing even the smallest scrap of food with me. I was overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity they showed me.”

“Because...they had seen the error of their actions?”

A pained frown. “No. I realized months later, the town had been destroyed at one point during the Occupation and still recovering. My family’s house remained intact. I now had land that they could farmed. And I had music. I owned the only house whose central computer had not been wiped or destroyed. I had things that they desperately wanted. They couldn’t take them by force, so they chose to flatter me. And in the end, they were forced into kindness.”

“I do not understand.”

“Places do not change. People change. I had changed, and I became someone who would not let anyone take what was mine. And they changed by realizing that they would have to live with me, whether they liked it or not. But if I had not left, I would have never become who I am today.” Krax got the awful feeling that Minjaral would not be with them today if he had never been rescued.

“But I did that. I left and returned with, with you. All of you.”

“The mistake you made was coming back too soon. Doh’Val, your people are not ready for the kind of change you want to offer. Just like the people in my homeland.”

“I….” He whimpered softly. “This is my home….”

“You cannot keep any of us. But you can leave now, and one day you can come back, and it will still be your home. ”

++++++++++++++

Krax felt the wear of time. How long had they been in the room? Were they almost done? What else could they possibly want? “We agreed that I would leave that night. I sold what I didn’t want to raise plenty for myself to leave and loaned away what was left to the other three. But after that, I heard nothing until the letter from the Federation to come here.”

The two interrogators kept writing, careful to not speak. They mouthed words to each other in a language Krax didn’t know, so his translator never kicked in to tell him what they were saying. Clever.

Hopefully this signaled the end. He was getting antsy. “Anything else?”

“You never fully explained how Seu Minjaral found you, or how he could find you at all.”

Krax groaned. “Vudic found me, I told you. He was with them.”

The interrogator leaned forward with a strange smile. “It seems you have been away from Ferenginar for quite some time”

“....Yes, but that means nothing.”

“‘Male’ and ‘female’ are relative terms with specific cultural meanings.”

“What does that have to do with me living outside the Alliance?”

“Ferenginar is no different. Our records list you as ‘male’ and we understood that to have a slightly different meaning due to your genetic disposition.”

“What do you mean, ‘genetic disposition’?”

The culture expert spoke up. “Your culture would not consider you a true male, would they? That is why you have the prostheses.”

A fog came over his brain as he desperately tried to regain control of the conversation. “Why do you say that?” he retorted.

“You don’t touch your ears. I have not seen you do it once. Males without prostheses can’t keep their hands off their ears. It’s an auto-erotic compulsion.”

Of course. Profits and Lace, she was right. He never trained himself to take that habit because it could reveal him. He couldn’t even be angry at her shrewd judgment but found himself sulking.

“Why you chose to leave is not in the scope of our questioning, but understand that we are not stupid, and neither is the head investigator. A client list would do a lot of good.”

Damn, damn, damn. “I still do not see the point. There is nothing illegal about what I did.” They didn’t know about the other stuff, fortunately.

“Does this sound familiar?” Music began playing.

“Yes...yes, it does. If I recall, Bajoran keyboard. That is my voice. The language...the language is some dialect I learned and promptly forgot. It was a special request.” All he truly remembered was that it paid well. “The client asked for specific lyrics which were nonsense.”

“It is the key to an encryption. I cannot tell you more, except that it was not to be shared.” His collar suddenly felt hot. “Seu Minjaral turned over his data storage where we found a great deal of work labeled as yours. Whoever your clients were, they used you to pass secrets, and you never tried to stop it. That Seu Minjaral possesses so many of these encoded secrets—well, I think you should help us help him.”


	9. The Aftermath of The End

Utrecht needed some time to finish her notes. The greatest talent of these four, aside from composing music, was their knack for attracting trouble. “Well, it makes sense that Mr. Seu would ask you for help. You do owe him.”

“It is right to do. He saved my life. I should do what I can to help him.”

“Do you remember anything after that night?”

“I was either asleep or unconscious for most of that evening. I returned to Vulcan on a medical transport ship by special arrangement with my government. Doh’Val had contacted my parents who contacted the Vulcan embassy on Qo’noS.”

“And the two of them. Any residual effects from their contact?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Mr. Jalal, you do understand that without the medical exam we require, we cannot confirm your injury and therefore cannot corroborate your account. During the span of time that you say you were recovering on Vulcan, you were registered at three checkpoints up to 100 light years away.”

“I have told you that I have no explanation for the discrepancy. But surely your colleague can confirm that I am telling the truth.”

“Our protocols dictate that we cannot trust telepathic species even under Betazoid observation.”

“The doctors on Vulcan will provide ample evidence.”

Utrecht sighed deeply. “I will contact them. It may prove enough and we can release you to be civilian advocate for Mr. Seu.” But he shouldn’t count on it. There was just too much smoke around all of them. There had to be a fire, somewhere.

\-----------------

Interrogator Baran spared no sympathy to Doh’Val the entire time, listening with a permanent frown. It was incredibly irritating.

“I left for Earth shortly after where I have been living since.” He wanted this to be done.

“I find this hard to believe, Mr. Seu the Second. You declare yourself family of a colleague, and then the two of you promptly go your separate ways. I do not understand.”

This sniveling cur. The twinkling from the Subject Shield reminded him that anything he tried would be futile and done in impotent anger. “I explained my reasons. It was the only way.”

“Mr. Seu The Second.” He knocked his fist on the table. “I need more. Tell us what was involved. Tell us what you did and tell us about Seu Minjaral.”

“What more do you want to know? I gave up everything—”

The interrogator leaped to his feet. “Do _not_ lecture me on loss, sir, or I will send you to the station’s brig for contempt during an interrogation. This is not an ordinary investigation, and I _will not_ bend to insolence from a subject.”

How much he would give for the Subject Shield to disappear. How happy he will be when he can leave. “Then stop wasting time.”

“ _Why_ did you agree to become Seu Minjaral’s legal next-of-kin?”

++++++++++++++

The local magistrate’s office opened in the middle of the night as a favor to House Nakarmi. The young clerk prepared a tablet with all official forms, bleary-eyed but coherent. “Please read all lines. By signing, you confirm your wish to release Doh’Val, Son of Carl, from your family clan.” The lights remained dimmed in the office to allay suspicion.

Carl Nakarmi and Tavana, Daughter of Aulohok, stared at the tablet offered to them, neither moving to take it. They hadn’t even told Doh’Val’s brothers. It was just too painful. They had been weeping before they entered the office. They had also insisted on donning their formal wear. Orange sindoor powder on his mother’s forehead ridges and on her hair. It was how they wanted their boy to remember them.

“Sir and Madame?” reminded the clerk.

Doh’Val’s father reached for the tablet with a trembling hand. They stood together and read, but they already knew what it say.

Next to them were Doh’Val and Minjaral, also dressed formally for the occasion. It was a funeral, after all. Try as he might, he could not assuage his loneliness. The other two were gone. Only Minjaral remained to help him. The man’s honor was unassailable. He realized that he may never meet another like him, on Qo’Nos or anywhere.

“I cannot do this,” said Doh’Val father, tossing the tablet on the clerk’s desk. “I will not, I—” Tears formed in his eyes. “Tavana, he is our son! We cannot—” He choked instead of finishing his words. This was the worst part of leaving. No matter what he did, he always hurt someone.

His mother, half a head taller than his father, wrapped her arms around him for comfort. A tear rolled down her dark bronze cheek. “My love, let him do this for us.”

“Morath should not be the reason we tear our family apart! How can you be certain that we will be disengaged? How can you know?”

She petted his graying hair. “We already know from experience. We cannot take the risk.”

He covered his face to compose himself. Doh’Val felt his heart tear to pieces as he did everything he could to not fall on the floor in hysteria.

She kissed his hairline. “My love, do not weep for our son. What he is doing is truly honorable and noble. He is a true son of the Empire.” She picked up the tablet, signed her name with Doh’Val’s father still in her arms, and handed him the tablet. “Please.”

His father absentmindedly wiped his hands on the front of his clothes, not caring if it stained. Looking up, he said to Doh’Val, “Never forget who you are. You will always be my boy.”

Doh’Val took the tablet as the clerk said, “By signing, Doh’Val, Son of Carl, you acknowledge that you agree to be released from your family clan.” He signed quickly before he changed his mind and handed it back.

The clerk was polite enough to ask nothing. “Minjaral, Patriarch of House Seu, by signing this you confirm that you are formally adopting Doh’Val, Son of Carl, as member of your house. He will retain his father’s name but no longer have claim to any rights and privileges granted to his father’s family, nor will he carry the burden of their honor.”

Minjaral signed the tablet without hesitation. “Madame, what do you expect to tell your dear patron?”

Doh’Val’s mother look down, shaking her head. “We do not know.”

“Perhaps,” he began, sliding a finger along the desk’s edge. “Cardassians are known liars and deceivers. A young man like him could be seduced away from his family.”

Doh’Val didn’t want to hear more. “Minjaral, you are Bajoran. Do not destroy your honor.”

“My honor is not something that can be changed by others.” His smile was strangely reassuring. “As I said, a mysterious off-world visitor could easily charm a well-meaning family out of their money and hospitality and even their son.”

All eyes then fell on the young clerk.

The clerk noticed, confusion on his face.

Minjaral reached into his pocket to place a large handful of money on the desk, staring down the young clerk. “Cardassians are such dishonest people. Gossip can travel far and wide. Could anyone really be faulted for falling prey to their schemes?”

The clerk looked at each of them and then the pile.

“Cardassians are a violent people. Could a young clerk really be blamed for taking a bribe that he did not want to appease such a hostile species?”

Slowly, the clerk drew the pile to himself.


	10. A Vulcan's Breaking Point

How long had Doh’Val been awake? The hours left him drained. Escorted by his handlers, he walked through the metal corridor to a large waiting area with various alcoves like cells, the entrances lined in blue light to signal the shielding for each. They gestured for him to enter the one at his right.

He felt the wind knocked out of him from what he saw.

“Vudic?” he whispered.

The man looked up, blue eyes just as beautiful as he remembered. He wore dark blue except for the elbow-length gloves which shimmered as he moved. It had only been a few months, but he looked older; he hadn’t shaved. The air around him seemed kinetic. “Doh’Val!” he called, striding to greet the other. “Have they told you their decision?”

How could the man act as nothing happened? He was still trying to find his breath. “No.”

“What of Minjaral? We are his advocates. They should release him to our charge.”

“I, I do not know—I—” He reclined against the bulkhead in their alcove to get some distance. “Do you have nothing to say to me?”

“I do not follow.”

He stammered into the words, “I almost killed you!”

Vudic nodded in acknowledgment. “But I survived. And you arranged for me to go home. That is the past. A grudge would be illogical.” He lowered his voice. “I contacted your family, but they tell me you went into exile. You never told them where you went. Is this true?”

Doh’Val couldn’t look at him. “Yes.”

In a rare gesture, Vudic touched his shoulder. “If I had known, I would have opened my home to you.”

“Even after what I did?”

“What you did does not change our friendship.”

Emotion overcame him. He didn’t care who saw or what anyone said or what Vudic did. He grabbed the other in a tight, trembling embrace. The past four months had been so very hard. “I wanted to tell you. Gods, how I wanted to tell you. But I thought you hated me. I thought you would never speak to me again. I...I was so ashamed.”

The embrace returned was stiff but it was enough. “We can speak on such things when we are done here. I must return home as soon as possible. Please, join me.”

The voice of Krax rang out, causing them to immediately part. “Well! Finally, some familiar faces.” The shields dropped momentarily with a hum, allowing Krax through. Unlike Vudic, he looked the same right down to his overly colorful outfit.

Striding into the alcove, Krax tugged at Doh’Val’s tunic. “ _You_ have lost weight. I suggest a tailor and a good trim for the animal on your face.” He glanced over at Vudic. “And _you_ have not slept in days. I suggest a shave for all the stubble on your face and perhaps a short coma.” He sniffed the air, crumpling up his face. “And both of you would benefit from a vigorous scrub.”

Vudic deliberately ignored the comments. “What of Minjaral?”

In an instant, Krax brought his voice to a near-whisper. “They are being thorny. I do not like this at all, but he called upon us for a reason—” he glanced between the two of them and sighed deeply. “And I must trust his judgment.”

Vudic traced around the bristly hairs on his chin with a finger, a new habit apparently. “The Federation’s justice system is one built on restoration rather than vengeance, a justice system which Vulcan helped create. They do not present us with any evidence of a crime committed—”

“Not to you.” Krax frequently glanced over his shoulder. “What they told me does not sit well with me.”

He waved away the notion. “That is impossible, and they will understand the impossibility of their scenario. They will receive the records from my physician who will confirm my injury and thus, the events on Qo’noS. The Federation’s justice system was founded on sound logic and principles. We have committed no crimes.”

Seeing Vudic again, seeing him fully recovered and so willing to offer friendship again without pretense, seeing him so confident and so reasoned as Doh’Val remembered—he felt the fog of melancholy which had plagued him all these months begin to lift. It would be terribly rude to rebuke the offer to visit Vudic’s home. A short visit, and then he could return to Earth and write again. Without a patron, he could finally write what he _truly_ wanted. He would pour his heart onto the page, return to the Talas Conference. He would make a point of regaining his vigor and strength. And maybe across the room, he would meet those oceanic, beguiling eyes….

“Seu, Minjaral. This way, please.”

The sight of his patriarch brought so much back to the surface. Shame, frustration, sorrow, relief. Minjaral had changed slightly; nicer clothes, mainly. His long hair now kept bound to make it look like black rope.

Krax wasted no time getting toe-to-toe. “You! You burnt down your own home?!” He poked a defiant finger into the other’s chest.

Gently, Minjaral pushed the finger away. “I did.” Doh’Val felt hit with a hammer.

Minjaral caught on with ease. “Doh’Val,” he began cautiously. “Kin of mine. It was never meant to harm anyone, certainly not you.” He paused, letting Doh’Val’s emotions subside. “In fact, I was inspired. It was a place of too much sorrow, and I could never allow another to live in a place with so much evil within.”

He couldn’t understand Minjaral’s reasons, but their extensive time living together gave him perspective on his mind. And judging from their dramatic night, Minjaral had a great deal of pain in his past. Doh’Val could only trust that it was the right thing in the moment.

Even Krax lost some of his bluster for a moment. “Well, I understand that, Minjal. But! They are saying a lot of not-good things. Did you tell them I was passing government secrets? You know I would never! And they keep talking about you going to Cardassia!”

Minjaral cupped his hands over his face, falling to lean against a bulkhead. “Tell me,” he groaned. “Tell me you are not also in trouble.”

Vudic inquired, “Why is that so important?”

Minjaral growled in response, “It was why I asked you to be my advocates!” He bolted up, a sneer on his butchered face. “Everyone else I knew, I gave them my farewells and told them I would not come back for years, so they could not know what had happened. The rest I knew would collapse under any scrutiny. You were the _only_ people who could help because you never knew my plan and _never broke the law_.” He emphasized the last with angry irony.

Krax snapped back, “Well we are here, so tell us _now_ what you were planning.”

Huffing with hesitation, Minjaral’s good eye wandered about. “I wanted to start anew. I made my arrangements and erased everything of my old life. After collecting on a few favors, I gained the papers I needed to travel where I wanted.”

“And your first choice is _Cardassia_?”

“Yes,” he retorted. “It is my birthright to see the homeworld of my conqueror-father.”

While they waited, Krax paced—as he always did—as far as their limited space would allow. He seemed troubled. “You should have chosen somewhere less suspicious. Why not start with Rias?”

“Risa never invaded Homeworld.”

At last someone came. Unfortunately, it was the petty Interrogator Baran. The spring in his step signaled bad news.

Minjaral straightened to meet him, keeping his voice low. “All of you, be silent. I will handle this.” And then with loud, taunting contempt, “Interrogator, are you happy for my good fortune?”

He held out the tablet in his hand to read in an unnecessarily loud voice. “It is with regret—” nothing in his manner expressed regret “A—that I inform you of our decision to keep Seu Minjaral, citizen of planet Bajor, protectorate of the Federation, in quarantine until his evaluation by the lead of our investigation. He is to remain on the station until then. Specialist Nikolai LeVanne, our head investigator, will determine your release. You will be provided quarters and certain privileges aboard the station.”

Before, Doh’Val would have immediately spoken up in protest. But even if it were in name only, he found himself compelled to defer to his patriarch. Minjaral, meanwhile, remained defiant. “My advocates are here to see my stay will remain very short.”

“Oh! _Oh!_ ” A snide laugh lit up his face. “You do not have advocates.”

Minjaral protested on their behalf, voicing their collective shock. “They are part of my legal rights!” he barked.

Interrogator Baran’s voice shouted above Minjaral’s continued insults. “Krax, _Daughter_ of Rhoon, if that is your real name—” Krax rushed the man only to bounce helplessly off the shield with a yelp then opted to snarl a storm of curses.

“Ah—Doh’Val, Son of Carl, of the House Seu, if that is to be believed—” Doh’Val held his tongue out of respect for his patriarch. He hoped that maybe he could will this man to drop dead.

“—And Vudic, Son of Talok, Jalal, you are now under quarantined and considered ‘person of interest,’ entitled to call on your own civilian advocates. For your connections to Seu Minjaral, you will be handled with him as one unit. And Mr. Jalal, I _strongly_ recommend submitting to the basic medical exam as soon as possible rather than continuing your resistance.”

Vudic stepped forward, the only one remaining in control while he spoke. “It is an urgent matter which requires a specialist.”

A ridiculing tone. “Oh, we have _extensive_ knowledge of Vulcan medicine. If it is _so_ urgent, then you can have your exam right now with any one of our doctors.”

Nothing said, he looked to the bulkhead to avoid talking further. Never had Doh’Val seen him at a loss for words.

“The doctor you want will arrive in six days. Until then, move through the opening behind you to processing. You may receive any communications sent to you as well as living quarters assignments.” He added angrily, “Mr. Seu, I sincerely hope you are pleased with yourself and the damage you have done. Because of you, I must now report why you requested a new Interrogator.”

Minjaral found the spite to smile. “That is the best news I have heard all day.”

The Interrogator, too flustered to respond, left in a huff. Finally.

On the other hand, Vudic had aged five years during that conversation. “This is irregular,” he declared, now clearly working to sound reasonable. “However, I am certain that together we will find a solution. They will see the flaws in their logic and let us leave.”

Doh’Val heard Minjaral muttering angrily to Krax, “My legal fate is in the hands of two fools and _you_.”

Proceeding out of the alcove, they arrived in a glassed antechamber with benches for seating and a handful of screens on the walls for viewing messages. A kindly clerk, one who knew nothing about what they did, chirped to them, “Vudic, Son of Talok, Jalal? Messages for you on Screen One.”

“I anticipate one of these will be from the Consortium detailing the circumstances of Minjaral’s detention and we can begin our search for a solution.”

Trailing their desperate companion, Doh’Val found himself trading grim looks with the other two. This would not go as planned, and it would be ugly.

_First Message._

To their surprise, it was Madame Aafia, dressed in gold clothes. She kept her hair covered, perhaps expecting him to be somewhere public. The translators created a slight delay, but he noticed something peculiar as she spoke. From the movements of her lips, she wasn’t speaking Vulcan but her mother tongue. Like his own father, he knew this tell: It happened most often in times of heavy emotion.

“Vudic? My son, you must come home,” she pleaded. “Tell them you must come home. Convince them that you are ill.”

He remained facing the screen, blue eyes staring intensely at his mother’s face. “It is nothing of concern,” he announced to a question no one asked.

She hesitated, glancing down. “I know that your cycle is ending soon. You do not eat. You do not sleep. You are not like yourself, even during this time. I know your signs. You must come home right away.”

His cycle? What was that? “It is common for my people.”

“Vudic, please….” Tears started and kept coming. “I cannot lose you to this. I am so afraid for you. I know your father. He will not speak what I know is inside him. He refuses to speak to you until you return. He has vowed to not answer your letters until you return. He is appalled at your recklessness with yourself. He cannot bear it.”

Nothing to say. His fist covered his mouth with his arms half-folded and his brows furrowed. His eyes said everything: seeing his mother like this hurt him more than anything Doh’Val ever could have done.

“If, if you can find someone to help you, please.” Someone to help? What did he need help with? “If you cannot….” She hiccuped. “Find an imam and pray. Do it for me.” The screen went dark.

He exhaled, lifting his fist just enough to speak clearly. “My mother is known for speaking with strong emotion.” He sounded less convincing than before.

_Second Message_

A face he hadn’t seen for quite some time. Dr. Dael normally spoke with effervescence, but this time he wore an affect so flat that it disturbed them all. “Vudic, what, in the name of everything good in this life, have you done with our research.”

Vudic was not prepared. He reeled slightly, features tightening as his efforts to suppress his emotions became all the more obvious. It was like watching a pressure cooker.

“Someone is harassing my family. They are harassing me. They call constantly, and now they have tried to find me at my home. They—” he looked away, either in pain or anger, or something of both “—They spoke with my niece, Vudic. My _niece._ She is a child. They are claiming a way to disrupt telepathic abilities. They want us to build weapons.”

For the past few moments, Doh’Val noticed an odd clicking noise. It was Vudic, grinding his molars with a stone-like face.

“Vudic, I,” he took a breath to steady himself. “Vudic, I must disavow you. I am leaving my home for a little while. I cannot see you, I cannot know you. It is too dangerous. I do not like this and I fear for my family.” A sad frown. “Your mother contacted me. She says you are wearing your gloves. I, I wish you could be here so I could—” Was that a blush? “—help you at the end of your cycle. I am so sorry. Have a friend contact me when you return home.”

In lieu of teeth-grinding, a twitch came to his left eye. “It is for the best,” he said quietly, his voice stilted in its calm. “Dael can conduct his research without me. The matter will be handled in a timely and logical way.” The screen went dark.

Don’t let there be another message…

_Third Message_

Oh no.

An aged but distinguished Vulcan woman—closer to how he’d always imagined Vulcans—appeared in dark flowing robes. Even for a Vulcan so measured, nothing in her manner conveyed fortune. Subtle things. The pause before speaking. The minute sigh. Nothing good would be said.

“Vudic, the Society of Artists has reached a decision. I worked to persuade them of your character as my pupil and the circumstances of your actions. They do not condone your behavior on Qo’Nos, given that you created compositions for the sole purpose of acquiring goods. This reflects poorly on you as a Society member.”

Doh’Val never knew. Why did he never know?

“But your conduct on the Klingon ship was inexcusable. You used your knowledge to end the lives of members of another species by exploiting their biology. In doing this, you created a weapon, one that could be used for genocide.”

Captain Kagga’s ship. No…

“What you have done is realize the destructive use of your work and demonstrate this use to those who would want it. I have done everything in my power to sway the appeal in your favor, but they cannot condone what you have done. Furthermore, your sudden departure from Homeworld without explanation during these proceedings reflects poorly on you.Therefore, Vudic, Son of Talok, you are censured by the Society of Artists. You may not claim membership nor may you use the titles you have earned. Your punishment will last for no less than three years; after three years, we will re-evaluate your censure. This is a generous punishment as many in the Society wished to permanently expel you. Send me everything you own containing your titles. I will keep them for you. Only after censure may you use them. In the meantime, you may only speak with me. Any attempt to contact others will result in automatic expulsion, and you shall never rejoin the Society.”

The stoic facade broke, showing a terrible epiphany. “Everyone,” he murmured, “everyone I know on Homeworld belongs to the Society.”

“If you return right away, you may be able to work within the confines of the punishment. I can offer you opportunities. But you have spent far too much time off-world. This is the result of your follies. When you return, I strongly encourage you to join a monas—”

The woman’s face shattered as Vudic’s fist sailed through it. Inside the hole, he found a wad of electronic guts which he ripped out and threw on the floor.

All three of them instinctively stepped back.

He turned to Doh’Val, wild and baleful wrath scrawled all over his stony face. His eyes seemed combustible. An unfamiliar feeling crept in: Fear.

One second later and a hand closed around Doh’Val’s neck, a thumb pressed firmly on his throat. He found his heels lifted off the ground, toes dragging but the rest of him hanging like deadweight. Every effort to claw at the hand, the gloves made his fingers slide away like they were made of wet ice. It was one motion, not an ounce of strain. All Vudic needed to do was close his hand, and he would snuff out Doh’Val’s life. A motion as easy as putting out a candle.

The hiss made his neck hairs stand on end. “Source of my ruin. I should kill you.”

He could see Minjaral and Krax reflected in the black mirror of the broken screen. Minjaral positioned himself to protect Krax. Everyone had ceded their personal weapons when they arrived.

Anger poured off of Vudic like sweat. The air surrounding them seemed to create waves like the heat off of fire with no smoke. All Doh’Val could do was close his eyes and wait. If Vudic truly wanted to do it, none of them could stop him.

Release. Doh’Val stumbled to the nearest chair in a coughing fit, taking as many deep breaths as he could to make sure nothing was harmed. He was fine, mercifully. The other two rushed to his side.

He caught sight of Vudic’s back as he walked through the sliding doors. “We shall meet tomorrow,” he said, the voice serene as before. Like nothing happened.


	11. Betazoid Interrogator De-brief

Rustrid, Luma, Tam, and Sebul Identified. Secure Readout from Official Cross-Interrogation Correspondence.

Sebul: Firemoons of Oomnos. I cannot believe the Investigator is letting the Vulcan just walk and the Captain is agreeing with him. He needs to go to the brig. 

Rustrid: He doesn’t need the brig. But he does need a doctor. You three weren’t in the room with him. Bad waves. Weird thin walls. Made of glass instead of stone. He’s not well. I think he’s pre-pon farr. The brig will just make him worse.

Luma: The Investigator needs an answer. What do we think? 

Tam: Baran needs some sedatives with a glass of wine so he can calm down.

Luma: That goes without saying. 

Rustrid: What was that stuff again? Laudanum in some brandy. He needs that. 

Sebul: Alright, they’re all guilty of something, but I can’t make everything connect. Most of it is minor things, but they’re the type of minor things that point us to bigger things. Evading checkpoints, arson, spoofing retinal scans—either they are someone’s puppets or they are extraordinarily good liars. 

Tam: The Klingon is obviously being used. It was almost toxic being in the room with him. He knew he’d been used. I feel bad for him. 

Luma: Alright, but by whom?

Sebul: The Ferengi, obviously. You saw Tam’s notes—the Klingon only lived inside the Empire. Young artist like him got dazzled by the first person who talked to him at a UFP conference, they’re both hybrids and have something in common, and they think they’re gonna change everything with their art. It’s stupid, but it has an internal logic.

Luma: You really believe he just meets someone at a conference and suddenly decides to follow him across the galaxy without knowing anything else about him?

Tam: I have to come to the Klingon’s defense. A handsome, charming person comes up and say not only that he thinks you’re talented but that both of you have actually been looking for each other this whole time. If you can’t read his mind, how do you say no? People fall for that everyday. 

Sebul: Like this—No. He should have known better. And I know this log will go into a database somewhere, but I’m saying it here. I don’t trust the Ferengi. Everything in his record is a lie. No, I take that back. The gender marker is probably the only honest thing. Everything else is garbage. I already know the Ferengi authority will say he doesn’t exist, and they’re right. It’s a perfect cover. If we wanted to wage a real war, we would recruit oppressed genders on Ferenginar to covert operations. Who’s to say someone isn’t doing the same and this guy was dumb enough to get caught? 

Luma: Let’s step back now. Yes, they are up to something, but we don’t have the evidence to decipher what it is. There is an entire year of the Vulcan’s whereabouts that we cannot accurately map. He says he was on Qo’noS while he is at checkpoints, and I think that was true, but he could have easily sent someone with his retinal scans to do things on his behalf. But that still doesn’t connect him to the Ferengi. Right now we just have two, maybe three, people who potentially swindled this Klingon out of some money and made such a mess of things he felt that he had to go into exile. All of it just looks like gross negligence and miscommunication, not deliberate and nefarious.

Luma: Where does the Bajorassian fit in? 

Rustrid: Is that what we’re calling him?

Luma: It’s what he calls him. I like it. ‘Hybrid’ isn’t helpful because three of them are hybrids. The Bajorassian. I honestly thought Baran would turn off the Subject Shield, throw me out of the room, and start throwing punches. That’s how angry the Bajoran authorities are about the arson. He was a political agitator for decades, during and after the Occupation. He knew what he was doing. 

Tam: Alright, but maybe he did want to a fresh start. 

Sebul: You go get some therapy instead of burning down a historical building. 

Tam: Well you got me there. 

Luma: And a fresh start where? He has the forms for an open-ended stay on Cardassia Prime to meet this other historian. But our questions were so narrow that I can’t read if he was going there because the government actively recruited him or for his own dalliances. 

Tam: You think he found his biological father? 

Luma: Again, I cannot tell. But...I had a feeling. I couldn’t put it in my notes. He wants to find him. And he knows, or he thinks he knows, that he’s alive. The Bajorassian had been a fierce advocate of the genetic mapping projects that started on Bajor after the Dominion War to help people find whatever remnant of their families might be left, but he wanted it to include hybrids like him and the orphaned Cardassians living there. He wants to find his other parent. 

Rustrid: But then what?

Luma: I don’t know. I couldn’t get that far with Baran in the room and when we switched to Suzuki, I lost access to that memory. 

Tam: Well what do we recommend? Deep read? Mind meld? 

Rustrid: Wait, wait, wait. Mind meld is too risky right now until we have the Vulcan under control. His brain is toxic. 

Luma: We still have nothing to recommend for the Ferengi. 

Sebul: That one is easy. Offer a bargain. He turns over his collection of recordings and we can give him some protection from the Ferengi authorities. He’d be stupid not to take it, and it’s a fair deal. He doesn’t seem evil. 

Luma: Alright. Bargain for the Ferengi, deep scan or mind meld for the Bajorassian and the Klingon, and a cold shower for the Vulcan.

Rustrid: Or an erotic holodeck adventure. That should keep him occupied. If he stays this way, he'll need a medically-induced coma just for everyone's else sake.

Tam: Should we offer some kind of protection to the Klingon? I saw the security playback. That was scary to watch. 

Rustrid: That’s the problem. If the Vulcan decides that is who he wants, there isn’t much we can do. I’m not even certain he’s fully aware of what he’s doing.

Tam: Is that what it’s like? They just go into a fugue state?

Luma: Come on, stay focused. We tell the Investigator our recommendations. I think they’re reasonable. He’ll agree. 

Sebul: How do you know that? You can’t even read him.

Luma: Neither can you or anyone else. And I think he’s right about the new Cardassian government. They have our fugitives and they’re using them for their schemes.

Tam: You think it’s true that they’re going to try to retake Bajor?

Sebul: Why not? The last time they did it, we knew and did nothing. Now they have former UFP assets who specialized in government engineering. As far as they’re concerned, why would this time be any different?


End file.
